I waited for a response, but the voice on the other end of the phone simply grunted in disgust, then the line went dead. With trembling hands I folded the cell phone and tucked it into my pocket.
You did good, kid. I do believe you’re getting the drift of it.
But I didn’t feel good. I hadn’t realized how tense I felt until the phone call ended. Now my mouth was as parched as the Sahara. Mechanically, I drew the Moose Hill Spring Water I’d bought out of the soda machine dispenser and broke the seal. Then I took a long gulp, my gaze automatically wandering across the parking lot to the shadowy woods beyond.
Hmm, said Jack. I guess bottled water’s not a complete sham if you’re five miles from a hospitable tap.
“Why, Jack . . . I do believe you’re getting the drift of it.”
CHAPTER 16
Mystery Man
If it’s going to be a long story, let’s have a drink.
—Raymond Chandler, “Goldfish,” Black Mask magazine, 1936
“IT’S SO DIFFICULT, all this waiting,” I silently griped, pacing the nonfiction aisle of my bookstore.
Welcome to my world, sweetheart. When I was alive, waiting was the name of the P.I. game. Now that I’m dead, time is all I’ve got.
“I never thought of it like that,” I said, suppressing a yawn.
Well, it was easier when I was breathing. If I were, I’d be easing my pain with a belt about now.
The door opened and a young man entered.
“Look . . . here comes a likely candidate.”
When my aunt Sadie heard the sound of the bell over the door, she instinctively looked up at the new customer from behind the counter, caught herself, then abruptly looked away.
Not too obvious.
The newcomer was in his twenties, wore summer khakis and a loose shirt, and seemed like a suitable match for the voice I’d heard over the cell phone. Before I spoke again, I raised the hardcover of All My Pretty Friends to my face and turned my back on Bud Napp, who lingered at the new release section trying hard to look like a customer. I didn’t want Bud to think I was talking to myself—which I suppose some would say I was.
“Do you think that’s him?”
Don’t be a bunny, doll. That guy ain’t Jasper and you know it, Jack replied, a tad impatiently I thought.
“But he’s the right age.”
You can’t be sure of the guy’s age—
“He sounded young—”
The tenor of his pipes mean nothing, sister. A voice funneled through the Ameche doesn’t reveal as much as you think it does. Anyway, the square john who just walked in doesn’t have enough berries to live in a swanky burb like Newport. His shoes are from hunger, and the cuffs of his pants are showing threads.
As the man passed by, my eyes lingered on his footwear. Jack was right, his shoes were worn, the heels rounded. And the cuffs of his pants were frayed, too. “Good eyes,” I marveled.
I don’t have eyes anymore, baby, just . . . shall we say . . . awareness?
I sighed. Whatever the identity of my mysterious stranger, he was certainly not punctual. Almost thirty minutes had passed since the scheduled rendezvous time and there was no sign of him. I made good use of the extra minutes by skimming Angel Stark’s book, skipping the self-obsessed, self-indulgent passages about her feelings and her anguish in an effort to get to the meat-and-potatoes facts about the Bethany Banks murder and its aftermath.
The doorbell tinkled again and a tall, preppie young man entered, conspicuously overdressed for the weather. I knew at once he was our man.
“Jack, that’s the one!”
Calm down, sister. Your heart’s beating like a bangtail’s hoofs. You’re giving me a gin mill concussion, and I haven’t even got a brain anymore.
“I recognize him, Jack, he’s—”
Stop ventilating your gums. Just read your book and act nonchalant. Let him make the first move.
I didn’t have to wait long. The young man glanced in my direction, caught the title of the book I had open in my hands, and our eyes met. Dropping all pretense, Henry ‘Hal’ McConnell—the man-boy with the lifelong unrequited crush on Bethany Banks—walked right up to me.
“You are the woman who phoned,” he said in his now-familiar voice. It was not a question.
I nervously adjusted my black-framed glasses and set the book aside. I felt Bud Napp’s eyes on me, saw Sadie trying hard not to stare. “Let’s find a secluded spot to talk,” I murmured.
His lanky frame followed me to the rear of the store, where an overstuffed armchair was mercifully vacant. I gestured for him to take the chair, but he shook his head. “You take it.”
I sat down myself and Hal McConnell sat across from me in a straight-backed wooden seat he dragged from under a lamp in the corner. After plunking down and arranging himself, he offered me a withering gaze.
“You’re Hal McConnell,” I began.
“As you no doubt know from that piece of tripe you were reading.” There was venom in his voice, a cold anger. The kind that didn’t climb out of his heart to reach his eyes, which were still as flat as a wall.
“Angel Stark’s book, you mean?”
He nodded. I estimated Hal McConnell to be in his early twenties. He was well-dressed for a summer Saturday, which suggested to me that I’d snagged him on his way to or from a formal appointment. His blue blazer was impeccably tailored and his buttoned-down shirt crisp and white, his silver-and-blue striped tie perfectly knotted in a snug Windsor.
His features were regular, his teeth white, his brown, wavy hair worn longish. He’d changed its style since the published photo, in which he’d brushed it away from his face. It fell forward now, which was a more attractive and trendy style, making him look more appealingly rakish. His chin was a bit weak, but his hazel-green eyes were penetrating, and the intelligence behind them was palpable. Something about him reminded me of my late husband, Calvin, and the reminder made me more than a little uncomfortable.
“Who are you and what do you want?” he asked.
I saw no point in playing it coy. “My name is Penelope Thornton-McClure. This is my store. Angel Stark spoke here last night. Then she left with a friend of mine. And now they’re both . . . missing.”
Angel’s dental records were probably confirming her identity as I spoke those words, and the news of her death would likely hit the broadcast world any minute, but right now I thought the less said the better.
“I can imagine the kind of ‘friend’ you’re referring to,” replied Hal. “Young. Male. Buff and working-class. Not at all sophisticated—certainly not enough to see through Angel’s games, her manipulations. Angel always did like to slum—for a fling.”
My blood pressure rose with his insult to Johnny, or any kid like him—which is to say any kid who didn’t have a trust fund and a private school blazer. It wasn’t as though I hadn’t encountered this attitude before—among my in-laws it was practically genetic. Maybe that’s why my anger flared as abruptly as it did.
Take it easy, kid, Jack’s voice soothed. Stay in control. Don’t let him play with your reflexes. You play with his.
I cleared my throat. “That’s very interesting . . . that Angel liked to slum. I can only assume from what I’ve heard about her murder that Bethany Banks did, too.”
Hal McConnell winced at the remark—the first sign of vulnerability he’d exhibited since we’d met. But his reaction wasn’t anger as much as pained defeat. “What happened to Victoria?” he said, his concern sounding genuine. “You said she’s missing, too?”
“Victoria Banks came to this bookstore last night, with two of her friends. She confronted Ms. Stark in the middle of her lecture, caused a bit of a scene.”
He cursed—another crack in the shell. “I told Vicky to steer clear of Angel Stark. That Angel was a dangerous, unstable person—and no friend of her sister Bethany.”
I was surprised at his blunt admission.
Don’t be, baby, you’re cracking him like anti
que china, said Jack. Keep the heat under him.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked pointedly.
“I mean Angel was sleeping with Bethany’s fiancé behind her back, that’s what I mean. Donald Easterbrook was playing Angel right up to Bethany’s murder and beyond, as far as I know.”
I’d skimmed enough of Angel’s book to know she’d never revealed such a relationship, never even hinted at it, either past or present. Interesting what Angel chose not to tell in that tell-all book of hers.
Hal McConnell cleared his throat impatiently. “You were saying that Vicky is missing?”
I nodded. “Apparently, sometime last night, after Angel’s appearance here at the bookstore, Victoria stepped out of her motel room for a soda and a little privacy, in order to make a phone call. She hasn’t been seen since. Her purse, her clothes were left behind. Her friends reported her missing this morning.”
“By ‘friends,’ do you mean Stephanie Usher and Courtney Peyton Taylor?”
I nodded. Hal sat back, scowling. “The dyke and the ditz.”
I frowned at his insults, and made a note he was no friend of Victoria’s friends. “Victoria was calling you,” I reminded him. “I believe she spoke with you last night.”
“No, she spoke with my voicemail,” Hal replied. “I was on the West Coast all week, interviewing for graduate school, and I took the red eye, so I was out of range for cell communication all night. When the plane landed, I checked my voicemail. She’d left a lot of long, rambling messages, asking me to call her. I tried to return her call, but she never picked up.”
“You called her ‘Vicky’? Just how well did you know Bethany’s sister?”
Hal placed his hands on his knees, leaned forward in his chair. “How is this any of your business Miss McClure—”
“Mrs. McClure”
“You haven’t answered my question, Ms. McClure.”
“I’m not asking about your relationship for the sake of gossip, Mr. McConnell. I co-own this bookstore. Victoria Banks caused a scene here and now she’s missing along with the author she threatened. The police aren’t yet taking Victoria’s disappearance seriously. She’s over eighteen and hasn’t been missing twenty-four hours yet. You might say I’m an ‘unofficial’ investigator.”
“I can’t help you.” The wall behind his eyes was up again. He lifted his chin.
He’s clamming up. Tenderize him. Just keep bumping gums till he yammers.
“Can you at least give me a sense of how much of Angel’s book is true? For instance, what she said about you and Bethany—was it all lies what she claimed? Didn’t you feel anything for Bethany?”
I expected my question to hit a wall and drop away. But Hal McConnell’s shoulders sagged. His tight scowl loosened into a sad frown. The expression, combined with the long hair falling forward around his face, made him look every bit the sensitive, intelligent man-boy Angel had described.
“I loved Bethany . . .” He swallowed. “But Bethany and I were never lovers . . . does that answer your question?”
So Angel was right about that one, noted Jack.
I nodded. “And why did Bethany’s sister call you last night?”
“Vicky and I were friends. I tried to help her through the worst of it.” He sat up straighter, met my eyes. “We both took her death very hard. After the funeral, we began to talk. E-mails, phone calls at first. Soon we became closer.”
“But you were never lovers?”
Hal’s eyes narrowed. “Whether or not we were lovers is not your business, and I refuse to discuss the issue. Especially since Victoria is missing and, as you obviously presume, foul play was involved.”
“You sound as though you know something you’re not telling me.”
“I know nothing. You’re the one informing me. I just know that Vicky hasn’t been ‘all right’ since her sister’s murder—and things became much worse after the publication of Angel Stark’s book, which dragged the whole tawdry affair into the limelight once again. I knew it was possible that Vicky would confront Angel. I’m only sorry I wasn’t here to prevent it. But at least . . .”
Hal paused. I waited for that wall to come up again. But, once again, the sad boy seemed to overwhelm the cautious man. He leaned forward in his chair. So did I.
“Look, a few weeks ago, around the time Angel’s book was first being hyped, Vicky called me from her parents’ home in Newport. I was surprised to hear she was back at the family’s place because she had been excited about immersing herself in a special film studies program she’d signed up for during the university’s summer session. Then she told me she’d come home for only one reason—to steal a gun from her father’s trophy room. She claimed she’d read excerpts from All My Pretty Friends and was going to get even with Angel at one of her book signings.”
“What did she mean by ‘get even’? Did she want to kill her?”
“Vicky wanted to kill Angel; we all did. But I think she just wanted to scare Angel witless by pointing the weapon at her. I told Vicky she was crazy, of course. I tried to make light of her plan, and I also offered to conspire with her to make a better one. She told me to come over, and I went.”
Hal tightened his already tight tie, looked around.
“It was pathetic, really. She’d hauled down some antique from World War One, probably didn’t even have the proper ammunition—as if either of us would know. Vicky begged me to help get even with Angel. After hours of letting her cry on my shoulder, I returned the Mauser to its display case.” Hal shook his head. “The next morning, I drove her back to Providence. I left for California not long after that. I hadn’t spoken with Vicky for over a week, hadn’t even heard from her until last night . . . and that’s really all I know, all right?”
Hal McConnell rose. “Now, Ms. McClure, you have to excuse me. I have to get back to Newport.”
I stood. “What’s the hurry? Don’t you want to stick around? Maybe talk to the local police? Aren’t you worried about Victoria Banks?”
“Of course I’m concerned,” he snapped. “That’s why I’m leaving. You said yourself that the local police aren’t taking the missing persons report all that seriously yet. That situation will change once Cambridge Upton Banks enters the picture.”
“Victoria’s father?”
“Of course. Mr. Cambridge Banks is a punctual man. He should be finishing his afternoon golf game right about now. If I hurry, I might just catch him at the country club.”
Then Hal McConnell’s eyes hardened. “I certainly wouldn’t want old man Banks to hear such disturbing news from anyone else but me. So I thank you for your concern, Ms. McClure, but I can assure you that this matter will be well taken care of and you can drop your ‘unofficial’ interest from this moment on.”
With that, Hal McConnell turned his back on me and strode to the front door. The bell tinkled as he went through it, into the sun-splashed afternoon. I hurried to the window, watched him climb into a silver BMW.
Needless to say, I was disappointed it was not the black Jaguar with the blue and white bumper sticker on the trunk that had nearly run Angel down the night before. Things might have gotten simpler.
It’s okay, kid, said Jack. You got some good info.
“I’ll say,” I whispered in reply. “Angel lied in her book. She herself was cheating on Donald Easterbrook while he was engaged to Bethany. And, according to Hal, it sure does sound like Victoria was planning to kill Angel herself—as we’ve suspected all along.
One more thing, sweetie. According to Stephanie Usher, Victoria’s parents are on the grand tour of Europe. So who was lying to you? Hal or Stephanie?
I sighed in frustration. And confusion. “This thing is getting complicated. We need some help to sort it out.”
The coppers?
“No, the Quibblers.”
Oh, my God, not that yammering band of cracker-barrel philosophers and coffee-klatsch raconteurs you call a business association?
“The very same,” I re
plied. “A half dozen heads—”
You mean head cases.
“—are better than one, so I’m taking this case to the Quindicott Business Owners Association.”
Doll, please. Spare me an evening with those fruitcakes.
“No.”
CHAPTER 17
Kangaroo Court
You got a tender spot in your heart for the palooka but it’s not going to do him any good.
—Frederick Nebel, “Take It and Like It,” Black Mask magazine, 1934
AFTER CLOSING THE bookstore at seven, I set up the folding chairs in the Community Events room, placed a table against the wall, and prepped the coffee urn. Then I locked up and went upstairs to the somewhat rundown yet cozy three bedroom apartment above the store to have dinner with my son. My aunt had stepped out already to have quahog cakes with Bud at the Seafood Shack. (And before you ask, quahogs—which comes from the Narragansett Indian name “poquauhock”—are usually referred to as “hard-shell clams” outside of Rhode Island.)
By nine, I was pulling the plug on Spencer’s Shield of Justice marathon, which was playing on the Intrigue Channel.
“But Mom!”
“No buts, Spencer. I agreed to let you watch TV until nine. Now it’s time for bed.”
“But I’m gonna miss the next episode. My favorite one’s the next one . . . The one where Jack Shields goes undercover at a racetrack and at the end he has to chase the bad guy down on the back of a horse!”
A soft male chuckle rolled through my head.
I silently asked Jack if that particular episode was based on his case files.
Only the racetrack part, baby. Those horseback antics are pure Hollywood.
I smiled. “You won’t miss a thing,” I promised my son. “I’ve got a tape in the machine. You can watch it in the morning.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
While I was less than thrilled that my nine-year-old was enamored of crime melodramas, I was relieved he’d taken an interest in anything after the suicide of his father. Sometimes I still worried that moving him away from the life he’d known in New York City, away from the private school and luxurious Manhattan apartment, might have been a mistake. But one look at the smiling face of my seemingly normal and healthy boy told me I did the right thing.
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